


Keep the home fires burning

by nikaris



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Desmond, Baby Modern Assassins, Baby Modern Templars, Baby duckling Desmond, Bartender Desmond, Bill's not that bad a dad, Bleeding Effect, Desmond Lives, Desmond tries to fix things, Fluff and Crack, Gavin is a huge teddy bear, Gen, Identity Issues, Mama Miles is doting, Protective Desmond, Secret Identity, The Author Regrets Everything, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikaris/pseuds/nikaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At this point, Desmond knew he shouldn't be surprised anymore. Sure, not waking up at the Great Bar of the Afterlife was a bummer, but then again, he should be used to the Ones Who Came Before (And Who Would Not Stop Meddling) throwing him a curveball. He just…didn’t think that included him to wake up 20 years in the past. </p><p>(Well, he was here anyways. Might as well make the best of it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not beta'd.

It was admittedly, a stupid mistake on their part. 

He should have been tipped off by the near convenient timing of it all. What were the odds of the Animus blueprints they had been searching for the last two months ending up in the local police precinct? The opportunity had been too good to pass up, especially when the aforementioned plans were scheduled for transit elsewhere for further investigation. As they all knew, the best time for retrieval was in transit. Less security, more external variables. It was easy pickings. It was _supposed_ to be a walk in the park.  

That was their first mistake and it had spiraled downhill from there.

All William could remember now was the sharp crack of the glass of his passenger seat window rupturing and the nasty crunch of another vehicle rear-ending him. Everything else had become a blur of colored smoke and pain as the door he’d been in the process of escaping through crushed his leg from the force of a second nondescript van.

William was only absently aware of his team’s panicked yells through his earpiece before the fumes building inside his lungs took hold and he fell unconscious with the Abstergo inscribed blueprints scattered on his dashboard laughing at him. 

The first thing William became aware of after jolting awake was of the subdued throbbing of his leg. He hissed when he moved the offending limb, hearing the rush of blood in his ears when he straightened up gingerly from his sagging position against the cement wall. It was somewhat difficult to do without the use of his hands, which were handcuffed in front of him. Grimacing, William shifted his arms awkwardly to alleviate the chafing of skin from his bindings.

By his internal clock, it couldn’t have been much later than 1 or 2 am. That meant that he must have been unconscious for perhaps six or seven hours. It certainly reflected the extent of swelling of his leg. He took a moment to scan his surroundings, noting the bars lining his cell and from the dim fluorescent lights humming from above, he could make out other cells like his along either wall. The observation that they were vacant made him breath a sigh of relief, glad that his team did not share his fate. Whatever was to come, he doubted it would be good. With the intense swelling of his leg, he knew it to be either broken or fractured, both possibilities making any chance of escape a far off dream. He doubted his captors would kill him (immediately, at least). His only option now was to wait for what the Templars planned for him and bide his time until an opportunity to contact his team presented itself.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and counting the waves of pain ebbing from his leg to pass the time. His breathing evened though he kept his senses sharp, keeping an open ear for the inevitable footsteps that would signify the arrival of his captors for whatever—

“You look like shit.”

William jerked upright, biting off the tail end of a curse when the action jarred his leg. He hadn’t heard a _thing._ The assassin pushed away the pain to glance straight towards his cell door, expecting either his gloating captor or higher clearance Abstergo personnel, but to his surprise, it was neither.

Instead, it was a man in nondescript clothing, standing tall with a hood pulled over his head and obscuring the upper part of his face from William’s sight. The man didn’t look much more than his late twenties, and though stubble dusted the visible part of his face, the hollowness of his cheeks gave his outward appearance a gaunt and drowsy look. It certainly didn’t help that he looked rather unkempt. His hoodie was more gray than white, splotched with what William could only assume was dirt and ash. The black shirt underneath seemed to fair much better at least and if he squinted, he thought he could make out a tribal animal pattern emblazoned on it.   

While his clothing aided William’s certainty that he wasn’t affiliated with Abstergo, (the lack of a triangular logo stitched on the fabric was a dead giveaway) the matter of him being a friend or foe was still left unknown along with his intentions.

He watched, wary and unblinking, as the man unlocked his cell with one swipe of a cardkey before stepping cautiously into his cell. _‘Good_ , _’_ William thought viciously. The man wasn’t without some self-preservation. The cell door remained wide open behind him—a fool’s mistake— and William idly wondered if he could reach it without passing out from pain.

“I wouldn’t try it.” The man divulged, drawing William’s attention from the cell door to the man as he lowered himself to his haunches. The words sounded more like an admonishment than an actual threat. He gestured at William’s leg with a sweep of one gloved hand. “You’ve fractured it pretty bad.”

“Attempted vehicular manslaughter will do that.” William said blithely which startled an utterly amused laugh from the other. He caught sight of a pale scar across the man’s lip, stretching in time with his chortles.

“A sense of humor? Damn, that’s unbelievable.” The man chuckled, making William pause oh so slightly at the familiarity coloring the edge of his voice.

“Do I know you?” He asked warily, studying the other shrewdly.

His visitor’s humor went wry. “No. I’m just a fellow prisoner here.”

A _‘fellow prisoner’_ whom also happened to bypass a master assassin’s detection. William tensed slightly when the man’s hands disappeared into the pockets of his hoodie, before letting out a small, approving sound when he fished out what looked like a hooked wire. The man gestured at William’s bindings, hand outstretched expectantly. “Let’s get you out of those.”

“How did you escape your cell?” William asked once his savior was studiously working on unlocking the handcuffs.

“Mostly got you to thank for that.” His visitor admitted. “They were too busy fussing over what to do with you to pay much attention to me. I nicked their cardkey and here we are.” 

Lock picking and pick pocketing. What a peculiar skillset. He connected the dots in a heartbeat and asked curiously, “You’re a thief?”

The man gave a huff of laughter. “It’s hardly something I do for a living.”

”Which would be?”

“Mixing cocktails.” William wasn’t quite sure if he was joking or not when the man cracked a grin.

“Bartenders don’t typically end up in places like this.” William commented offhandedly. Few landed in holding cells he’d only seen in non-extradition countries.

The man glanced up from his work to cock his head good-humoredly. “Neither do car crash victims.”

 _Well, I’ll be._ “What’s your name?”

His savior smiled grimly, the corner of his scarred lips quirking up as if sharing a sardonic joke and familiar in a way that William couldn’t understand. “My name is _Seventeen_.”

William swallowed the instinctive urge to press. Instead, he hummed noncommittally, eyeing ‘Seventeen’ critically. It was hardly a conventional name, but something told him that perhaps it wasn’t far off from Seventeen’s identity as it sounded.

Sometimes, that was enough.

The yell of alarm, faint, but audible nonetheless, caused them both to snap their head to attention.

Seventeen cursed. “Well, they’ve noticed I’m gone.” His ministrations to William’s handcuffs renewed and a couple seconds later, the satisfying _click_ of freedom filled the cell. William breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing at the chaffed skin.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Seventeen grinned. “But now the hard part.” He moved to crouch at William’s side. The assassin, understanding what Seventeen meant to do, wordlessly accepted the offered arm, gritting his teeth as excruciatingly, he was brought up to his feet. Seventeen was surprisingly gentle, careful to rise at a slow, steady pace to which William was silently grateful for. The assassin made the mistake of jostling his fractured leg in an attempt to secure his hold around Seventeen’s neck, and Seventeen’s arm, which had been curled around his waist, held strong until William recovered. As they hobbled out the cell, William gave a guarded look at his new, tentative ally.  

Trust wasn’t something that William made a habit to give out freely, but strangely enough, there was something unsettlingly familiar about the man that William couldn’t instinctually label as ‘threat’. He took in the Seventeen’s attire again, eyes lingering on the chosen color of his hoodie. Traditional Assassin’s white and it wasn’t unheard of for assassins to hide in the civilian sector, but it could be coincidence. There was the possibility of Seventeen being merely a civilian, but William was hard pressed to even consider it. The way Seventeen held himself wasn’t unpracticed and even as they shuffled along, there was an inherent grace in his careful, measured movements that were unprecedented for a simple bartender.

Not a civilian, William decided. Far from it. What else then, did that leave?

Seventeen made a small noise in the back of his throat and stopped suddenly. William swallowed his question when, following Seventeen’s gaze, he saw his possessions, all (save for his handgun which was missing) strewn on the metal table attached to the wall adjacent to his prison room door. Thankfully, they all seemed intact. Even his hidden blade showed no sign of tampering.   

He glanced at Seventeen, gauging his reaction to seeing the blade, but was mildly disappointed to see nothing in his countenance that reflected recognition or anything elsewise. He looked rather indifferent, as if seeing a wearable device with a 3-inch retractable blade was no cause of real alarm—or normal.

 _‘Curiouser and curiouser.’_ He stowed his wallet in the inside of his coat and deftly slipped his blade up his sleeve when Seventeen looked away to glance down the hallway.

“Why are you helping me?” The assassin asked once they were moving and Seventeen once again steadied him from another stumble. “You would have a better chance of fleeing on your own without me slowing you down.” It was a legitimate question, and he felt Seventeen stiffen, steps faltering just slightly. 

“I couldn’t just leave you there.” Seventeen answered lamely after a long moment, frustration and _something else_ warring in his voice that the assassin couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Blame it on my good conscious, I guess. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to rescue hapless old guys, anyways,” he tacked on with an amused snort.

“Playing hero’s in your job description?” William raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a work in progress. Always wanted to be a hero. Maybe I’ll be a bartending superhero that shakes martinis to save the world.” Seventeen quipped and it forced an involuntary bark of laughter from William’s throat. Once again, Seventeen shot him a startled look, looking rather taken aback before quickly focusing on the task at hand of navigating the halls.

Supported by Seventeen, there was nothing William could do but follow his lead as they made their way through the building, which gradually transitioned from plain cement structures to a more industrialized setting. The area itself, with various messy tables and scrap metal covered daises reminded him of a cross between an office building and a lab.

Now and again, he would hear yelling accompanied by the clamor of heavy feet but by some miracle, they hadn’t encountered any resistance despite their slow pace. (Night guards, William could expect in their apparent pseudo prison, but this was well into the area of negligence.) He glanced at Seventeen again when the man paused minutely. It was strange how often Seventeen lingered between forks of corridors, considering each direction with the smallest of frowns before choosing a path of no particular pattern that William could foresee.

“You seem to know your way around pretty well.” William observed. A bead of sweat rolled down is temple. Though their pacing was moderate and accommodating to his incapacity, it did not escape the incurred fresh wave of agony up his body for every couple feet traveled.

“It’s not as hard as you think.” Seventeen replied absently and this time when he raised his head to survey the next fork, William thought he could make out the briefest of glimpses of hazel of Seventeen’s eyes. “Reminds me of a less fancy version of Ab—my last apartment.”

“Really.” William said neutrally, noting the change in word before what Seventeen said fully sunk in. “Wait, what? How does this remind you of an old _apartment?_ ”

“Rent was cheap.” Seventeen said easily and something akin to bitter amusement crossed his face.  “ _Very_ cheap. They practically kidnapped me and told me to live there from now on.”

William blinked, opening his mouth before closing it just as abruptly. “I see.”

Seventeen grinned, but William got the feeling that he was laughing at an inside joke. 

“How long have you been here anyways?” The question had been egging him for some time.

“What makes you think I’ve been here longer than you?” Seventeen queried.

“Your hoodie.” William grunted, catching Seventeen’s undivided attention. “Friction against the cement would wear down the fabric. Your hoodie is grayed more in the back and is frayed. So, either you make it a habit of wearing the same thing day in day out without wash, or you’ve been frequenting the ground long enough for it show.”

“Wow. That was like something out of _Sherlock._ ”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Seventeen amended good-naturedly. “But you’re right. I’ve been here a little less than a week.”

A sharp intake of breath from Seventeen had William tensing as Seventeen cursed and threw them both around a corner, murmuring apologies under his breath as William hissed.

“Keep quiet.” Seventeen warned, and the assassin hardly had a moment to question _why_ when he heard it; the faintest of voices coming down the direction they had been traveling in. William shot a probing look at Seventeen, to which the man ignored pointedly, flattening himself against the wall as much as he could with a wounded assassin draped along his frame.

From footsteps alone, William counted three people in all. The jingling of keys and the slapping of firearm holsters in their sprint marked them as security. One of them had a particularly loud radio that he and Seventeen didn’t have to strain to hear. They _weren’t_ looking for him and Seventeen, that much was clear. The crackled word of ‘intruders’ seized William’s immediate attention and each subsequent phrase made William want to give an honest laugh of entertainment as Seventeen’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher towards his hairline.

“…Friends of yours?” Seventeen questioned, once the three had passed them harmlessly and the radio chatter had become nothing more than a faint echo. He looked more than a little astonished, but then again, William could assume that it was a normal reaction to finding out that some two people had not only disabled the building security system, but also _devastated_ the central data server room worth _hundreds of thousands of dollars in patents and data files_.

“The best.” William attested, grinning viciously. You didn’t take one of the Black Hills Assassins’ own without receiving retaliation tenfold.

“Let’s not keep them waiting then.” Seventeen replied and something like nostalgia dusted his tone. “Exit’s close.”

William breathed easier. Seventeen hadn’t been leading him blind then.

However, as all things tended to go, the universe decided to go throw a wrench in the works.

No sooner had they moved more than a couple feet did the very ground rock beneath them, making them both stagger for support. Seventeen took the brunt of their stumble, cushioning William from the wall as the fire alarm screeched above them.

“The _hell._ ” Seventeen grunted while William cursed under his breath. He doubted his team was behind whatever that was, but there was no time to think of who or why. With this much ruckus at what William could only assume now was a high profile building, it wouldn’t be long before law enforcement arrived with even more unneeded attention. They needed to go, _now._

“How far are we from the exit?”

Seventeen clicked his tongue, sweeping his head in that odd surveying manner of his again before jerking his chin forward. “Not far. Next right down that hall in the stairway. It’s an emergency exit.”

“Perfect, let’s go.”

With their pace significantly quickened, William caught sight of the emergency exit sign somewhere between the fourth and fifth pulse of pain shooting up his body. He gave an uneven sigh of relief, one part of him glad for escape being within their grasp but another greater part of him agitated and restless about the status of his team. While he and Seventeen had been lucky enough to avoid the bulk of security personnel, he doubted that his team was as fortunate with all the chaos they had caused.

Abruptly, Seventeen stopped and somehow knowing that it was for good reason, William let him tug him a step back just as the door that they had been about to pass by burst open unexpectedly. The assassin reflexively fingered the releasing mechanism of his hidden blade until he identified exactly whom the person skidding out the door in an angry flourish was.  

“—ammit, dammit, dammit, Bill. Of all the _goddamn_ places, where the hell could—“ The man’s gaze, having first glanced from the direction of the emergency exit whipped at the opposing direction and his angry mutterings died in his throat when his sight settled on the two.

“Hey Gavin.” William waved, managing a weak, but utterly relieved grin to which Gavin returned with a wide one of his own.

“Bill!” The lines around Gavin’s eyes relaxed. There was the briefest of looks where he took in Seventeen before he gave his attention to William. “Christ, we’ve been looking all over for you!”

William frowned, a harrowing anxiety returning to him when he realized that there wasn’t a second person behind Gavin. “Where’s—?!”

“Mama Bear’s a floor above us. Hold on.” Gavin activated the Plantronics headset in his ear. “Hey—yeah. I found him. We’re heading to the stairway now.” He bid a quick goodbye before his eyes drifted over to William, wincing sympathetically. “Jesus, they did a number on you.” He went to William’s free side, hefting the complacent assassin’s other arm around his neck.

“Could have been worse.” William rebuked. He was lucky not to receive a compound fracture in the ambush. Gavin, of course, took the deflection with a huff of mild irritation _._

“Either way,I was expecting to do a lot more rescuing, but I guess we were beat to it.” Gavin turned to regard Seventeen, the action much too smooth and his gaze a little too even for it to be casual. “Is it you I have to thank for that?”

Seventeen, whom had been watching the display of camaraderie with a quiet sort of attentiveness, gave a small grin. “Anyone would have done it.”

It wasn’t the answer Gavin was looking for, but he still smiled cordially, eyes assessing. “You have my thanks, kid.”

 _'Not a Templar.’_ William signed against Gavin’s shoulder. A little tension left his best friend’s body at that, but the caution did not leave his face.

It didn’t take long to get to the stairwell. Though it had an electronic lock, Seventeen’s keycard easily bypassed it and in no time at all, they were met with the footsteps of their final party member.

“Bill! Thank god!” Leaning over the stairway railings, Helena Miles stood in all her harried glory. Her hair was messy, loose from her usual neat braid and there were stress lines down her face, but at the sight of her husband, her expression smoothed. 

“Helena.” William smiled, glad at seeing her uninjured. She sprinted down the flight of stairs to meet them, eyes scanning them as she did so. It lingered over Seventeen warily before her face pinched at seeing William’s state.

“Meet any trouble on your side?” Gavin asked before Helena could fuss over his best friend.  

“None. Most were too busy escaping the fire from the higher levels, but I found papers—documents of a project they were working on here.” Their attention went to her hand that was patting her satchel where they could see the corners of several shabby manila folders sticking out. “They seem to relate to…our other project.” The pause came with a level of propriety that made William suddenly aware that Seventeen had become a rather large elephant in the room, something that he knew his wife would remedy immediately.

He was proven correct when Helena’s demeanor shifted effortlessly and she smiled disarmingly at Seventeen, voice adapting a touch of saccharine in the way that she did when on reconnaissance missions for marks. “But enough about that…who is this young man?”

As much as he also wanted to press, they didn’t have _time_ for this. William opened his mouth, intent of firmly requesting _haste now_ when he belatedly realized how very still Seventeen’s had gone the moment of his wife’s arrival. Curiously, and with some amount of trepidation, William turned his head and promptly frowned.

Seventeen was frighteningly pale, mouth parted in a silent gasp that made the hollow of his high cheeks all the more defined. He looked like he was seeing a ghost and his eyes reflected it. They were blown wide, the pupils dilated that let William see that the younger man’s eyes weren’t really a hazel color after all. They were brighter than that, nearly gold from beneath his hood as Seventeen stared at his wife with a mixture of horrified disbelief and desperate hope.

And then, something about Seventeen suddenly looked so very familiar, like he’d seen those exact eyes among the novices in the training corral or over the dinner table. They reminded him of…of…

“…Desmond?”

The quiet call, inaudible to all but Seventeen brought the man’s attention to him for one stunned moment before Seventeen jerked, head shooting up the stairway sharply and before anyone could react, Seventeen moved. He retracted himself from William and _struck_ , his arm extended in a fast motion that all assassins associated with that of a hidden blade kill.

And William _cursed_ him, ashamed at the worry that had churned in his chest and throat thick with betrayal as Gavin gasped in horror too little too late as they helplessly watched Seventeen’s hand seize Helena’s neck—

William’s ears rang.

—and abruptly change its trajectory to Helena’s shoulder, shoving her fully bodily right out of the way of a bullet.

 _“OUT!”_ Gavin yelled instantly and a short yell of obscenity from above was all the warning they got before the guard fired again.

William was all but carried by Gavin as they ran the last couple meters to the emergency exit. He could hear their pursuer yelling behind them, calling out their location into a radio between successive shots.

When the red door of the emergency exit was finally in sight, Gavin didn’t hesitate to slam his free side bodily into it, giving way to the rush of cooled, smoke tainted winter air. Helena and Seventeen followed right behind them, vibrating from adrenaline. He distantly noticed that Seventeen seemed to sag heavily against the door but whether it was due to fear or shock, William couldn’t tell. Their getaway van, one that William recognized as the counterpart to the one that had become scrap metal in his capture, was visible and not parked far from their location.

But, as they say: _Out of the frying pan and into the fire._ In a span of a couple minutes, several things happened at once.

The van failed to start.

The emergency exit door exploded with bodies.

Someone was holding them off to buy them some time.

Through the haze of pain that was rapidly overtaking his vision, William couldn’t pinpoint exactly what happened in what order. He could hear coarse Spanish from the driver’s seat as the van sputtered frustratingly but his attention was mostly caught by the figure between them and Templar security, counterattacking strikes with a stolen tactical baton while simultaneously disarming and knocking his adversaries out.

For one bleary moment, William thought that it was Gavin out there, but then he realized that it was Gavin’s hands trying to haul him into the back of the van and _not_ at the solar plexus of a security guard.

“Helluva fighter, you found, Bill.” Gavin grumbled in an attempt of good humor as a body hit the ground. His hand went to his holster. “’Lena, get it running!”

“I’m _trying_ , but the damned thing’s—ah!”  

The van rumbled to life just as a hole buried itself into the car door. Gavin retaliated with shots of his own, catching one Abstergo guard in the leg and scattering the others.

“Seventeen!” William barked, “Let’s go!”

Seventeen dodged out of the way of a tactical baton and if the situation hadn’t been so arduous, William would have laughed when Seventeen bent down to collect dirt and throw it into a guard’s face.

“I’m pulling the van around!”

“Kid, come on!” Gavin yelled, side door wide open as Helena brought the car parallel to the building. “Kid!”

“Gavin!” Ignoring the protesting of his leg, William shot up and yanked the assassin back, just in the time for a spark to flash where a bullet ricocheted off the edge of the car door and where Gavin’s head had been _very_ close to being. William felt for the spare hidden against the van’s interior and fired at a guard that was leveling his own firearm towards Seventeen.

“Kid!” “Seventeen!”

“I swear to god, _niño,_ get in the—!”

Something slammed into the van and William had the brief irrational thought of, _‘not again’_ before he saw that it was due to Seventeen.  

“Drive.” Seventeen grunted, heaving himself inside the van. Gavin barely had time to slide the door close before Helena slammed on the pedal and the source of the car door window’s newly acquired hole made itself a new home in the crevice of the van’s interior lining.  

There was a good moment, only filled by the car engine and the vague sounds of far off sirens, before all three assassins collectively sagged in relief, smiling with varying intensities as they did. Even Seventeen, who was breathless in the corner, shared a weak grin.

Gavin, as expected, was the first to break the ice with an easy laugh. “Jesus kid, where did you learn to fight like that?”

From his vantage point, William saw Seventeen’s arms convulse around his middle in what he could only assume was perhaps a defensive gesture. He hoped they weren’t spooking the kid.

Seventeen, however, answered easily enough. “Kind of also in my job description.” He glanced pointedly at William. “Broke m-my fair share of bar fights.”

“Seventeen here is a bartender.” William stated as a way of introduction. He stretched his leg out obligingly when prompted and flinched when Gavin made quick work to splint it.

“Some bartender.” Gavin acknowledged, eyeing Seventeen appraisingly and up front, Helena gave a nearly inaudible, but tellingly approving hum.

It was no question between the three assassins now that they _owed_ Seventeen. The strange man had not only a direct hand in saving William’s neck, but also Helena’s. Not to mention that he had essentially held off a pack of guards _by himself_ for _their_ sake—people he didn’t even know or even had allegiance too.

At the very least, they owed him a ride home.

But, on the other hand…

Seventeen had nearly all the makings of a _good_ Assassin. He was an ideal candidate.

From the rear-view mirror, William saw the same calculating gleam in his eyes reflected in Helena’s. From the eager look on Gavin’s face, it was obvious that he was all too for it as well.

Well then. 

“I recall you saying something about wanting to be a hero.” William began and for one odd moment, there was a feeling like pieces coming together. “You… happen to be looking for a job change?”

Background checks would certainly have to be done. There was also the matter of interrogating _why_ Seventeen was even in a Templar den in the first place to settle out, but from there, getting the man into their ranks was no true obstacle.

Assuming, he agreed, at least.

“It’s a one-time offer.” Gavin added when Seventeen took a tad too long to answer. “Otherwise, if you’re not interested, we can drop you off wherever you want to be and…” Gavin trailed off, wondering why Seventeen still wasn’t looking at him. Mild annoyance turned into concern when he realized something wasn’t quite right. “…Kid, you alright?”

The touch of alarm in Gavin’s voice sent warning bells in William’s head. He saw Gavin’s hand move and barely touch the younger man’s shoulder before Seventeen had his wrist in a bruising grip, his head jerking up and body taunt like a bowstring to fire.

“Seventeen!” William barked instantly and the reaction was immediate. The vacant look left Seventeen’s eyes and he let go of Gavin as if burnt, muttering a shuddering string of apologies in a mismatch of English and…was that _Italian?_

Seventeen curled into himself. His hand was pressed tightly underneath the fold of his hoodie against his middle and only when William peered closer did he see something leak from the black leather of Seventeen’s glove.

Blood. 

“Foolish boy!” William hissed angrily and grew angrier by the second when Seventeen merely gave him a semi-sheepish grin at being caught. “Let me see!”

Obediently, Seventeen opened his hand slowly. Through Gavin’s cursing, William saw the puddle of blood cupped like a dark pool between his abdomen and hand.

William was past infuriated. Seventeen had been shot and had said _nothing?!_ Did the kid have _no self preservation?!_

“Why didn’t you say something?!” The assassin covered Seventeen’s hand and pressed hard against the wound, ignoring the way he grunted at the added pressure.   

“I-I didn’t think it was that serious.” Seventeen mumbled, speech already slurring as Gavin cussed him out and rifled through a med kit. He blinked slowly, eyes wide and stunned as if what was happening fully registered to him. “What a trip…”

“Clinic in four miles.” Helena informed them tersely from the front and William braced himself as they ran over a speed bump more than a little too fast.

Seventeen had the makings of an Assassin, yes, but definitely not the self-preservation of one. What was he, a martyr?

He must have said that out loud because Seventeen shook with mirth, grinning widely at William like he had made the greatest joke in the world.

“Like you wouldn’t _believe._ ” Seventeen laughed, and even when he passed out minutes later, the sound permeated the entire van until they reached the clinic.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Well,' Desmond thought morosely, 'the afterlife's looking great so far.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the only remotely serious chapter you'll get for a while. 
> 
> Unbeta-ed, as per always.

_5 days earlier..._

Surely, he had his work cut out for him.

Marvin, head security for the Abstergo owned lab facility sighed as he considered the man before him.

After three days of interrogating the strange man they had found within the walls of their building, it seemed that their fourth session was going to yield the same bare bones result once again. Under normal circumstances, getting something as simple as an identity out of someone in their custody was simple. However, when the man had been found, there had been nothing on him that they could use to trace his identity. No wallet, and certainly no driver’s license or equivalent ID. It didn’t help that the man—whoever he was—was stubbornly tight lipped and reluctant to answer any of his questions.

It was annoying, sure, but ultimately, there was nothing for him to lose by waiting the other man out. Eventually, he’d have to talk.

If it were up to Marvin, he would have handed the guy over to the local authorities. Breaking and entering, especially to a privately owned facility, was a serious offence, but he could understand how protocol would have him keep their guest in their custody before releasing the man to face charges. It was a necessary precaution in the company’s line of business, after all. More so now since they needed to know exactly how the man had managed to _get in_ the heart of the science labs without any evidence whatsoever and _why_ he was in the building in the first place. Countless hours reviewing tapes and checking the perimeters had yielded no sign of forced entry or otherwise. It was like their John Doe had just _appeared_ in the building.

(Which was impossible, but hadn’t dispelled the odd feeling down Marvin’s spine when their guest had smiled thinly at hearing that.)

The only reason he had been found in the first place was because the guy had been _screaming bloody murder._ Marvin had been leading the party that had found him, writhing on the floor and in the throws of hysteria. It had been a distinctly disturbing scene and only made worse when he had seen the blackened limb attached to the man.

Marvin scrutinized John Doe closely, noting how the man seemed to huddle his right arm closer to his body self-consciously.

Even after spending a day in their infirmary, their guest still looked as bad as when they had found him. Startlingly thin and with that sickly pallor, the guy looked like he needed a hospital. A cursory check up from their on call doctor had relayed remarks of poor nutrition and long term signs of fatigue. He had also made observations of recent and old needle track marks that dotted the hollow of his left arm.

“From heroin?” Marvin speculated, but the doctor had disagreed, stating that while the scars and pigment changes matched long-term substance abuse, the injection site looked almost too clean to have been done by a heroin junkie. The lack of signs for withdrawal was also evidence against the idea.

The matter of John Doe’s right arm was the most unnerving. Blackened from fingertips to past his elbow, it was a grotesque sight. It was nothing the doctor had ever seen and while it was clearly an extremely severe burn, it strangely didn’t behave as one.

“I’m surprised he’s still alive, let alone retaining _mobility_ of that arm.” The doctor had admitted once done wrapping the blackened skin. “The fact he can feel pain at all means his nerves haven’t been damaged. It’s…remarkable.” Despite his high words, the doctor had looked somewhat green and faint. Marvin couldn’t blame him. Even now, the smell of burnt flesh stayed with him in memory and he grimaced reflexively in disgust and nausea. He was glad John Doe kept his arm covered now, the sleeve of his hoodie pulled down the length of his arm and just slightly over the black glove the doctor had scrounged around for him.

Marvin liked his job. It paid well and so long as he kept his…discretion…about certain matters, he could support his family just the way he wanted. Yet, this didn’t sit well with him. Five days John Doe had been in their custody (one in the infirmary and four in his cell) and already there was _something_ about the man that put Marvin’s instincts on edge—as if he were the personification of a calamity waiting to happen and they were just in the eye of his storm.

It didn’t help that their John Doe had been very unnaturally calm since regaining consciousness, as if biding his time, and when the man’s sharp eyes met his unflinchingly, Marvin grew unnerved, despite himself.

None of this boded well. He would have to send one of the others to contact the higher ups.

A knocking sound jarred the security head out of his thoughts. The door opened after his acquiesce and in stumbled one of his men, expression urgent. From the corner of his eye, he saw John Doe cock his head in curiosity.

“What is it?” Marvin asked and the other leaned close to recant the notice in his ears. His eyes widened marginally, before he turned towards the messenger with a hard look. “Here? In 4-b?” The messenger nodded quickly and Marvin released a terse breath. He motioned at the other guard towards their silent prisoner. “Take this one back to his cell and you,” he stood up and gestured at the messenger, “with me.”

As much as he wanted information from their John Doe, new orders labeled their recently acquired guest in 4-b as a higher priority. Security for the new one would have to be upped and until the appropriate higher up arrived, dealing with John Doe would have to wait.

So caught in his planning, Marvin didn’t notice the card clipped to his uniform go missing as John Doe was escorted past him.

* * *

Juno was laughing.

That part, second only to agony, was one of two things Desmond could distinctly remember after he placed his hand upon the Eye.

Even with the liquid fire shooting through his veins and overwhelming his senses, it had been the mocking mix of amusement and victory resounding chime of Juno’s laughter that had been the loudest and hardest to ignore. Despite that, Desmond held onto the sound of her jeering, imagining it as an anchor over the inferno burning the life out of him. He remembered using all the hatred he felt for her and her scheming ways just to stay on his feet, all the while screaming his throat raw _because Juno was a goddamn liar for saying it wouldn’t hurt._

Somewhere along next several (seconds? minutes?) Desmond’s vision went white, the world expanding into a brightness that convinced him _that this here was death_ before…

Well.

That was kind of the problem.

The afterlife _sucked_.

To be honest, Desmond pictured the Afterlife as a great, big, pearl encrusted bar in the sky. It’d have patrons who knew what drinks they wanted when asked and always tipped well. There would be a significant lack of garbage in glasses and ripped up coasters/labels on the ground. No pleadings for drinks after closing time or the dreaded, so very generic order of, _“I’ll have a beer.”_

And no one would take the goddamn fruit from the garnish trays _meant for drinks._

The Great Bar of the Afterlife was supposed to be awesome. It was supposed to be his heaven, _his respite_ for his sacrifice. It wasn’t supposed to look like another internment and he wasn’t supposed to hurt like a bitch.

Of course, the alternative was Hell. Which, Desmond supposed as he propped his unconscious escort against the wall of the cell, could fit the bill.

He sifted through the guard’s pockets, pinching the collapsible tactical baton and… was that brick a _Nokia phone_? He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before taking it anyways. A weapon and any form of device for communication was a godsend after waking up feeling naked without either.

A glance out into the corridor yielded no sign of other guards and just for good measure, Desmond activated his Eagle Vision, noting that the farthest guard he could sense was perhaps three or four hallways away. He slipped into the hallway and choosing the opposite direction he had come, went on his way, relying on his Sight to avoid any sentries that happened to come too close for comfort.

For once, Desmond was glad that he didn’t have his hidden blade. It inadvertently made escaping less difficult as it didn’t broadcast his affiliations, which he was sure the Templars would have picked up in a heartbeat and actually reacted accordingly to. For all they knew, he was just some guy off the streets or a hoodlum into urban exploration, not a _very confused_ and _very alive_ Assassin lost in a place he didn’t remember coming to.

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? He was alive. He was glad for it, sure, but he was supposed to be dead. Despite Juno’s penchant for being a lying bitch, Minerva, the more honest and un-doubtfully more helpful ancient oldie hadn’t denied his death being unavoidable. Had they been wrong or was he really dead and this was some sort of limbo?

Did it even matter?

Desmond grinned humorlessly. The Ones Who Came Before (And Whom Subsequently Would Not Stop Meddling) were old, cosmic farts who played way far many rounds of Stabbing Simulator 2012. For all he knew, this was possibly another one of Juno’s doing. She had repaired the Eye to store her consciousness in it, after all. As such, it wasn’t entirely implausible that she had added other enhancements to it to serve her purposes.

No, it probably didn’t matter. Dead or alive, he had no choice but to see whatever this was through, anyways.

He turned a corner, taking in the room numbers bolted upon each door as he made his way forward.

The building was clearly set up to primarily be a lab, if the science equipment he observed in each alternating room was anything to go by. The layout was almost similar to what he remembered seeing in Abstergo during his first incarceration minus one very distinct characteristic: the place was clearly underfunded.

Whereas the latest in technology had been prevalent inside his first prison, this one was severely lacking. Desmond had to blink at the amount of bulky, CRT computer monitors filling table after table in each marked lab room. (Did anyone even make those anymore?) Shrugging, Desmond ignored it in favor of inspecting the other rooms. He had been so sure that he had passed it from the infirmary…

He didn’t have to search long. Once inside the main security surveillance room with its occupying guard knocked out and slumped underneath the desk, Desmond went through the process of sorting through each camera feed, searching for a viable exit. He absentmindedly noted again with some confusion and a prickling sense of unease how even here, the equipment also looked rather outdated.

Desmond made a small victorious noise in the back of his throat once he found a path to an emergency exit that was lacking in any personnel. He looked down to the yellowed map taped to the desk, fingers skimming over where the camera feed was overseeing. “Fifth hall…on the left side…”

It wasn’t far. _Reach the exit_. He’d worry about what to do afterwards later. Desmond let out a breathy laugh, body turning to leave when his eyes strayed and caught sight of a little detail in the corner of each monitor.

The date—reading 12/12/92.

 _92?_ As in _1992_?

But surely it was a mistake. It had to be a mistake! Yet, even as Desmond frantically looked around, the shelves upon shelves of tapes lining the walls were pristine and fresh. Even the calendar, printed with 1992 in bold over the top was immaculate wherein 20 years would have yellowed its pages. The place was no aged archive. Was he…in the goddamn _past_?

“You’re _shitting_ me.”

A flurry of motion in the upper security feed caught Desmond’s attention before he could appropriately _freak the fuck out_. It was of another cell room on the other side of the building. There were two guards moving slowly across the screen. They were hauling someone, one arm each hooked around the limp torso of…

Disbelief melted away into a calm, cold fury.

* * *

 _Fragile_ , wasn’t something that Desmond could describe his old man. For a man that had given Desmond a shiner lasting days for comparing him to Templars, the description would never have crossed his mind when considering his dad. The father that he remembered was tyrannical, after all. The father he remembered was set in his ways and could be cruel when he wanted to.

But that didn’t make William Miles any less his _dad_ and seeing him slumped against the wall _as if the guards had just tossed him in there without a care in the world_ made Desmond shake with suppressed rage. He breathed out sharply and if his foot happened to make contact once or twice with the knocked out guard’s groin as he passed, well, that was just accidental.

He stopped in front of the cell, fingers curling around the bars that held his parent. No, the father he knew was hardly fragile, but this version of the man lying broken in front of him undoubtedly _was_. It was so very _disconnecting_ and Desmond would have laughed if not for the tightness in his chest.

"If only you could see yourself now..." Who would have thought that his tough, near indestructible father could be reduced to this? If it _was really_ 1992, then his dad would be in his prime. How did the guy get himself into this bad a situation? How _funny_. How _weird_.

Desmond’s grip fastened into a choke-hold.

How _infuriating_.

The moment his father stirred, Desmond was already slipping back into the shadows the dim lighting offered, thoughts whirling on the best approach to bust out the building with an injured assassin and introduce himself without coming off as too much of a threat. A half moment later, he figured, screw it.

Desmond’s only priority was making sure his dad got to safety, period. So, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“You look like shit.”

Well, he never said he’d do it _tactfully_. 

* * *

The rest then, you could say, was history.

Even with a fuzziness clouding his vision and the acute pain from the gunshot wound, Desmond felt strangely at peace.

His father’s hand felt warm against his abdomen and his mother’s tones— _oh god, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her voice_ —were sweet croons to his ears. They both felt so strangely different, and yet, the underlying familiarity coloring their demeanor felt like a hand ruffling his hair.

It felt… like _home_. Desmond laughed breathlessly, listening to the assassins’ voices with a heavy, but joyous heart. His body shook, trembling not just with shock but also with the weight of possibilities.

This time around, Desmond decided, it would be different.

That was a promise. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things considered, William could do without his wife cooing over Seventeen. 
> 
> ...Even if he was tempted to do the same. On a manlier scale, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for my poor excuse of knowledge of the Spanish language.

_He dreamt that he was in the bowels of the Grand Temple._

_Two women stood before him, bickering and angry. They were arguing but for what reason, he didn’t know. It all sounded jumbled to him that it might as well have been white noise. He saw one woman—the taller of the two, cast a scathing look at the other, before she left in a huff. The other stared at the retreating woman’s back, expression just as frustrated, before she too left in the opposite direction._

_The mist in his dreams shifted and he saw both women on opposite ends scheming. One to save the world. One to take over it._

_In between them, the Eye laid on its pedestal._

_And then, unbeknownst to the two women, a third figure emerged from behind the artifact. There was an indulgent smile on his aged face but just as he raised his hand to touch the orb, the First Civilization member met Desmond’s eyes and—_

* * *

...

‘That _motherfucker.’_

* * *

Truth be told, Desmond was never going to be at peace with clean, sterile places.

Could you blame him? It reminded him all too much of his first stay at Abstergo and considering the subsequent shitstorm that went down from there, the blank whiteness all around was more than enough to elicit his panic. It was only when memory caught up to him did Desmond calm fractionally and cease all plans to trash the place.

He turned his head, surveying his new surroundings. Medical equipment laid about, but it was much too quiet. Not a hospital—most likely some other medical building. He hefted himself up with his elbows for a better view of the area but hissed when pain flared at the muscles of his midsection. His hand instinctively went to the source and Desmond frowned when he felt bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. How had…?

_Oh._

His mom. The guard in the stairway. Desmond’s head fell against the pillows, taking a deep breath to will the sudden rush of rage that the memory elicited to abate. The part of him that was more Ancestor than Desmond admonished him for being injured in the first place when it could have been easily avoided, but Desmond viciously beat it down. It was him or his mom. He’d be damned if he let that happen!

A dull ache went up his arm and he automatically clutched at the source, only to stiffen in alarm  when he realized that in his unconscious state, his clothing from the waist up had been removed. His gloves, his shirt, his hoodie… Without them, he could see the full extent of what was left of the husk of his right arm—charred to a nightmarish mess of flesh with their strange, circuit-like scars that had never fully faded away from its climb from the Eye.

 _Ugly thing._ Desmond tried not to think of how his parents must have reacted. 

A cursory glance around yielded no sign of his missing articles of clothing before his sight settled on the set folded neatly on the seat of the nearby chair. He grinned slightly at the color scheme—the same inverse of his normal clothes like back when he was on Animus Island— of the provided hoodie and shirt before quickly putting them on. He made a pleased sound at seeing his gloves among the offerings and silently sent a thanks to whomever had cleaned them of the blood. That was thoughtful of them.

Gingerly, Desmond slipped out of bed, careful as to not aggravate his middle. He spotted his shoes nearby, as well as the old Nokia phone he had nicked earlier on the nearby table. A careful sweep of the area with his Eagle Vision showed no one guarding the door and Desmond found the substantial bit of trust—by Assassin standards, no less—mildly touching, if not a little disconcerting. The lack of paranoia was yet another thing that Desmond could jot down on his growing list of differences between what was now and what was then.

It was disorienting. Not just from this bit of trust, but also from the general feeling he got from his parents in the first place. Sure, he had felt snippets of it earlier with what little interaction he had had with his parents but now, it fully sank in as to just how jarringly different they were from how he remembered them to be. Here, they were...lighter, for lack of better word. Less world weary. Less strained.

More hopeful.

This was it, wasn’t it? The Assassins as they were supposed to be at the height of their power, not the beaten black and blue, crippled Order that they would become years from now.

 _But not this time around._ Desmond reminded himself firmly. Not if he could help it.

But then there was the matter of his parents. Admittedly, he  hadn’t thought it through when he had chosen to intervene, but Desmond hadn’t been able to help himself when he had seen his father being dragged around like a ragdoll. Now, they knew his face. Would that change anything? Would something—for better or for worse—come out of it?

Better safe than sorry, Desmond conceded, calmly unlatching the window with one hand. Perhaps it was better if he left...

He got as far as one leg out the window before the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“I hope you weren’t planning on leaving before we could properly thank you.”

Desmond’s shoulders slumped.

_‘Busted.’_

* * *

“I hope you weren’t planning on leaving before we could properly thank you.”

Like William and Gavin, Helena wasn’t quite sure where Seventeen fell in terms of affiliations. He wasn’t a Templar; that much was clear. An Assassin? Unlikely, for there were no known assassins from their branch (either on missions or living remotely) in that area that they knew of. The only category where Seventeen reasonably could be placed was as a civilian, but even then, they were hard-pressed to believe it.

Because the thing was, Seventeen _acted_ like an Assassin.

Case in point, Helena thought, watching with barely veiled amusement at the sight of Seventeen frozen in a rather precarious position. He acted like a skittish assassin most definitely, but considering his earlier escapade a few hours ago and not to mention waking up in an unknown location whilst injured no less, it was somewhat expected, assassin or no.

She smiled serenely as Seventeen seemed to sigh in exasperation (she smothered a laugh at the overheard mutter of, _“busted”_ under his breath) before he retracted himself from the frame with some reluctance.

“Of course not, ma’am.” Seventeen said easily.  “Just enjoying some fresh air after being cooped up for so long.”

She recalled Bill mentioning that. Seventeen, however, didn’t shut the window and Helena saw it as the precaution that it was. _‘Interesting.’_

“Halfway out a third story window?” Helena asked bemusedly and when Seventeen ducked his head down in embarrassment, the pose struck her as achingly familiar.

“It’s what all the cool kids are doing.” Seventeen defended and the completely straight-faced reply forced Helena’s mouth to curl upwards before she noticed how his gaze dipped back and forth as he stole furtive glances along her body.

Under normal circumstances, this would not have concerned her. As a woman, she was more than used to leers. She didn’t expect any less from Seventeen. However, mild apathy bled into surprise when she realized after a moment that Seventeen’s glances were more _concerned_ than admiring. With the way his eyes flickered from the cut on her cheek to the visible dark bruise on her calf, she got a feeling that he was drawing up a tally of the damage on her, his expression subtly, but undoubtedly darkening with every one found.

Her chest warmed.

Seventeen’s shoulders stiffened slightly when she stepped further into the room, his eyes keenly following and assessing the movement minutely before jumping back up to her face. She considered him again, noting how his unassumingly relaxed posture belied his body’s convenient positioning for immediate action. Seventeen gave off the impression of a soldier, Helena observed ultimately. Odd, for what kind of war did a simple bartender have to fight?

His hood only accentuated the gauntness of his face and not for the first time in the last 24 hours did the maternal part of her flare, feeling for the man who, as strange as it sounded, seemed to have seen more of the world than she thought possible. Helena wasn’t quite sure why the thought sent a pain to her heart. It must have shown on her face because Seventeen suddenly looked more alarmed than he should be for someone he had just met. He made to move towards her, expression bizarrely a cross between vulnerable and concerned that caused Helena to stop short because _that was familiar._

 Impulsively, Helena reached out to him. It was a dangerous gambit for what she could piece together of the cautious man that was Seventeen, but Seventeen didn’t deter her. Instead, he went perfectly still, eyes wide in surprise as her hand cupped his cheek to tilt his face into what little light there was available.

What was it? Had they met before? Something tickled the back of her mind, but even as Helena scanned him carefully, evaluating the strange familiarity of his features, it eluded her grasp. Meanwhile, Seventeen seemed stunned to silence, his breath caught in his throat, but his eyes, Helena could see, alternated between a perplexing mix of softness and restraint.

“…Ma’am?” Was that a waiver in this voice?

How peculiar.

“Helena.” She said abruptly, letting go of Seventeen. At Seventeen’s confused glance, she allowed her face to soften and gave a small, teasing smile. “Ma’am makes me feel so old. Please, call me Helena.”

“Helena, then.” Seventeen nodded after a beat, expression a mite shy, but he didn’t reciprocate the gesture. Helena’s smile turned slightly rueful. Well, it had been worth a shot.

Seventeen opened his mouth to say something more but a loud yelp from the next room elicited both their attention. Helena wasn’t alarmed. When she had left to check on their plus one, the good doctor had been in the process of applying a cast. Her husband’s reluctance to have an obvious sign of a handicap on his person and subsequent complaining was expected. What wasn’t expected was seeing how Seventeen’s body went taut with apprehension at the sound.

“Is he…?” Seventeen stopped, shifting uneasily on his feet and Helena got the feeling that he was torn between asking about her husband or going to see for himself. “I mean…”

Helena inwardly cooed. _Buen chico._

“Come.” Helena said, deciding to spare him. “Let’s check on my troublesome husband.” She turned around to leave, unsurprised when Seventeen all but propelled himself off the wall to follow.

* * *

“Well, look who’s up.” Gavin’s friendly tone was the first thing that greeted Seventeen and Helena when they entered the room. The assassin was sitting on a plastic chair next to a visibly irate leg-casted William Miles who, at the sight of his two visitors, became only slightly mollified from his predicament. “Good to see you up on your feet, kid. You had us worried there.”  

“Don’t do that again.” William grunted as well, but the otherwise chiding words were backed with a hard look in his eyes that seemed to flummox Seventeen. He sighed irritably. “If we hadn’t been as close to this clinic as we were, you likely would not have made it.”

“…I’ll try not to be as careless.” Seventeen replied carefully and even though the elder assassin grunted again, the strain around his eyes visibly lessened. It drew a small huff of warm laughter from Seventeen while shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Sorry for making you guys worry. I’m just used to a little abuse.”

“Another aspect of your bartending career?” Helena teased.   

The corners of Seventeen’s lips twitched upwards wryly. “That and amongst other things.”  

“No offense kid, but you’ve got to be the oddest bartender I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Gavin remarked, equal parts jovial and assessing. “But you’ve got us stumped. How’d a guy like you end up in a place like that?”

Seventeen answered easily enough. “Trespassing.”

“…Trespassing.” William echoed tonelessly. The word felt like something out of left field. Something as simple as _trespassing_ sounded bizarrely mundane.

“At least that’s what they put down on paper.” The bartender chuckled good-naturedly. He propped his chin on one gloved hand, looking vaguely amused. “Would you believe me if I said that I just woke up there?”

From what they knew of Abstergo’s strategy of attaining test subjects for their fledgling Animus Project, they _would_ actually, but William didn’t voice it. His team hadn't found an actual working Animus in the building. As such, Seventeen couldn’t possibly have been a potential subject.

“Not simply,” William relented carefully, “but I suppose stranger things have happened.”

Seventeen cocked his head and just like the first time around, appeared almost surprised before his mouth pulled into a knowing smirk.

“Stranger things, huh? Like a couple people going on a rescue mission whilst also committing corporate sabotage?”

Between Gavin’s snort and Helena abrupt laughter, all William could do was smile cordially and nonplussed. “More or less.”

“ _Mira_ , Bill. _¡Que lindo!_ ” Helena cooed. “Can we keep him?”

 _'Tempting,'_ but William rolled his eyes for theatrics sake. He glanced at Seventeen to gauge his reaction, but instead of seeing an entertained or embarrassed expression from the victim of Helena’s sudden affection, Seventeen looked almost stricken. It felt like a punch to the gut and for one brief moment, he had the strange, reflexive urge to _do something_ about it before Seventeen’s expression cleared into something suitably neutral.

 _Now, what was that?_ William frowned, somewhat disconcerted by the rush of whatever that had been. Despite Seventeen’s earlier claims, he had to wonder again if somehow, they had met before. His son’s face flashed in his mind and absently, he wondered… He shook that ridiculous thought away. How could _Seventeen_ remind him of his 6-year-old?

“Sorry ma’am, but I got things to do, places to be.” Seventeen lamented, raising his hands in a pacifying manner when Helena graced him with a pout. “Martinis don’t make themselves.”

“Your talents are wasted on that, _joven_.” Helena insisted before narrowing a pointed look at the man. “And what did I say earlier?”

Seventeen winced, abashment clear on his face. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Helena is right, however.” William acknowledged, causing Seventeen to sober at his tone. “You should be looking towards… greener pastures.”

“And that’s what you’re offering?” Seventeen cocked his head but strangely, it felt like he was humoring them. “A job?”  

“No. A place.” William stated firmly, making Gavin and Helena reflexively straighten. “You said you wanted to be a hero, right? To do good in the world? Our group—our people work on a grand scale of that and if what we’ve seen today is any consideration, you certainly have the head, heart, and abilities for it. You’re a perfect candidate—if, of course, you’re interested.”

The ball was in Seventeen’s court now and though the man’s facial expression gave away nothing, there was no missing the back and forth conflict William could see flickering across Seventeen’s eyes. Still, the assassins couldn’t help but wait with bated breath as Seventeen considered William’s words.

And _god_ , they hoped he said yes. If not for their sake, but for his own. At this point, they knew that unwittingly, Seventeen had become an unlucky bystander and subsequent participant to both Templar and Assassin activity. To their Order, this wasn’t a problem. S _tay your blade from the flesh of an innocent._ They had their own ways of keeping witnesses silent. There was always room for compromise.

This was not so for the Templars. Somehow, Seventeen would end up dead and that was not a fate that the assassins could leave him to in good conscience. For that reason, whether or not Seventeen agreed to join them, there was no doubt that they would find some way to keep him safe.

They owed him, after all.

(But just for pure sake of want… William, Helena, and Gavin really hoped he would take their offer.)

It couldn't have been more than one tense minute before whatever that had troubled Seventeen finally settled.

“Assuming I am interested...” Seventeen dipped his head, but from the way the scar across his lips stretched, he was smiling. “Well, it’s poor manners to go into business together when I don’t even know all your names.”

William released the breath he didn’t realized he was holding as his face split into a grin. Likewise, his team beamed. “My apologies for the rudeness. My name is William Miles.”

“I am Helena Miles.”

“Gavin Banks, at your service.”

“And we are _Assassins_.”  

* * *

And in many places of the world, Templars and Assassins alike felt their sins crawling on their backs.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So maybe, just maybe, Desmond shouldn’t be having this much fun screwing with the Black Hills Assassins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c:
> 
> Unbeta, as per always.

 Considering the nature of what had happened merely four and a half hours prior, it wasn’t entirely uncalled for them to leave the clinic promptly before Abstergo recovered from the damage they’d dealt and followed their trail. The doctor—a man whom had initially been more than a little cowed when the three frantic assassins had shown up in his building with Seventeen bleeding on his doorstep—had immediately been up and arms against the idea but had relented once he realized that Doctor’s Orders weren’t going to change their minds.

Nonetheless, they were grateful for the doctor’s help. With a passing of hands where a hefty blank envelope made its way into the good doctor’s coat pocket and the given assurance of, “ _Patient confidentiality_ ,” that extended farther if the wrong people came knocking, the assassins were well on their way back to base with a new ’recruit’ in tow.

Well _, sort of._

* * *

 The thing with collecting a potential Assassin on the field was the fact that, there was substantially little time to explain everything that was needed. That was why introductions, let alone initiations, were rarely done on the field.

There was no shortage of people who had no idea what Assassins and Templars _were_ other than their stereotypical portrayals. It would give any well-meaning assassin a headache, but recruiters were adept at setting the hypothetical record straight.

From William's experience, all recruiters found some sort of pride and pleasure with telling the age long story of their life’s work. William was no different in this respect. There was a satisfaction with seeing the eyes of men and women light up as a world long hidden was revealed before them. Yet at the same time, there was always that small amount of guilt for what burden they would be putting on their new brothers and sisters.

Disbelief was expected, followed by confusion and skepticism. All potential recruits displayed some healthy degree of each, a trend that William was familiar with having done his fair share of recruitment duties. Subsequently, William had become adept at reassuring said recruits that, _no, we aren’t crazy,_ and _yes, some conspiracies **are** actually true,_ in the calmest and most reasonable way possible.

So, William was quite prepared (excited, even) to ease Seventeen into his transition into the Assassin’s Order. No doubt the man had many questions that William was more than happy to answer and really, the more he spoke, the more Seventeen seemed to get it.

In fact, Seventeen took the explanation of their identities with very little fuss. He was very accepting of their introduction— _understanding_ , even—that William would have been suspicious if a sudden sense of foreboding hadn't hit him at the same time that Seventeen unexpectedly laughed and asked, oh so innocently—

_“That’s code for something, right?”_

_William’s thoughts derailed, did a 180, and sputtered to a stop. “Come again?”_

_“What you just said. You know, ‘assassins’?” Seventeen smiled guilelessly, air quoting the aforementioned word._

_William opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Seventeen, we’re really—”_

_“I mean, that explains the corporate sabotage.” Seventeen bulldozed on, nodding self-satisfyingly to the surrounding assassins’ sheer amazement. “That building was from that big company, Abstergo, right? I’m all for saving the environment by stopping global warming, greenhouse gasses/emissions, and yeah, no one is more behind the Fuck the Sun club than I am, but c’mon, calling yourselves assassins for being radical environmentalists is pretty extreme.”_

_Between Helena’s sudden jerking and the strangled sounds that Gavin had started making in his corner, William could only berate himself for thinking that anything would go so easily._

_No amount of argument seemed able to convince Seventeen otherwise. If anything, Seventeen went with it, nodding and winking exaggeratedly whenever ‘Assassin’ or ‘Templar’ was voiced aloud._

_(“Gotta admit, Seventeen’s not wrong when he associates Templars with ‘pollution,’ eh, Bill?” “You’re not helping, Gav’.” “I think it’s adorable, cari.” “’Lena, please.”)_

“Perhaps we should just let him believe what he’ll believe.” Helena had sighed once they were out of earshot. She was watching Seventeen, who was obediently settled on a table a little ways away as the good doctor unraveled his bandages and checked over the younger man’s midsection. She put a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “It could be… beneficial to us.”

“The guy would probably be safer that way.” Gavin agreed (if not a little glumly). They couldn’t really blame him. Gavin had _literally_ pulled out all of the stops to get their message across to Seventeen to absolutely no avail. “He doesn’t have to be an assassin for us to keep an eye on him.”

Gavin wasn’t wrong. Seventeen’s perception of them being ‘environmentalists’ did allow the Seventeen some degree of distance from their organization and though it wasn’t ideal, that had been the point of all this, right? Ensure Seventeen’s safety from the Templars.

That didn’t mean they had to be happy about it.  

* * *

“Thanks for the ride.” Seventeen said once they were well within the city limits of Rapid City. “You can drop me off anywhere here.”

“Here?” Helena asked and the assassins gave him odd looks. There was a bus stop nearby but it would be another hour before busses began their routes for the morning. “ _Joven_ , we’ll drive you where you need to be.”  

“Yeah, kid.” Gavin leaned forward, arms folded on his knees. “Surely you got folks waiting for you. They must be worried sick.”

“I haven’t seen them since I was a teenager.” Seventeen said and grinned carelessly. “Can’t miss who isn’t there.”

“Pretty young to move out so soon.” William noted offhandedly and that hesitance _there_ when Seventeen’s mouth open _just slightly_ was enough for the assassin to confirm his suspicions.

A _runaway_. That made sense as to how Seventeen had landed himself at the Abstergo facility. Runaways were ideal victims for abductors. It wasn’t a far stretch to imagine the Templars using a member of a vulnerable population as a subject pool. However, being a runaway wasn’t an identifiable trait. How Templars had managed to catch someone like Seventeen whom conveniently happened to be a runaway was odd unless…unless he was part of another vulnerable population like—

William blinked, shooting a look of disbelief at Seventeen. “You’re homeless.”

“I am not—” Seventeen started, before he stopped, cocked his head, and considered the accusation as if it had suddenly dawned on him. “Actually, huh. I guess so.”

The van screeched to a stop. (“Ow, _shit!_ ” “Sorry!”)

“What do you mean, you guess so?!” William demanded a little incredulously.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure I don’t own my apartment anymore at this point.” Seventeen reiterated and he sounded mildly dismayed rather than the distressed that William thought he _should_ be. “Missed rent and all that. Housing can be vicious.”

At the horrified looks he was getting, Seventeen laughed. “Hey, don’t worry about me. The bar I work at—the owner and me are cool. He, ah,” Here, Seventeen glanced out the window a little to quickly and nodded approvingly, “He actually lives around here.” 

From the rear-view mirror, William saw Helena  _tsk_ in displeasure, but nonetheless, she pulled the van to the side of the road.

“We’ll contact you.” William when Seventeen hopped out. At the raised eyebrow he got from the younger man, William smiled, but didn’t elaborate as to how considering no contact information had been changed.

William thought he heard something that suspiciously sounded like an amused, “good luck with that” as the van door slid shut, but brushed it off as just his imagination.

He’d later come to regret that. 

* * *

“We should have just interrogated him right there and then, politeness and regulation be damned.” Gavin said a week to the day they had left Seventeen on the side of the road. Back home at the Farm from yet another cursory comb through Rapid City, the assassin collapsed into one of the many chairs of his best friend’s office with a hefty sigh. William barely spared him a glance, too used to Gavin’s theatrics and more invested in reading reports from returning teams.  

A week. It had been one week since they had dropped Seventeen off at Rapid City and they had caught neither hide nor hair of Seventeen since then. When they had finally gotten back to base, the first thing they did come morning was send some spare operatives out (with Gavin leading) to find Seventeen’s workplace but unfortunately, it was to become the first of many days for them to come back empty handed.   

(“Did you know there are 56 bars in Rapid City? _I do._ I _went_ to them.”)

“His name. At least we could’ve gotten his actual _name_.” Gavin moaned and silently, William shared that regret.

They shouldn’t have been too overconfident. Usually, it would have been easy to find all the info they needed of a person of interest, regardless of whether they had their name or not.  All it would have taken was a quick hack job and with the knowledge that Seventeen was a runaway with a bartending license, it should have been practically _effortless_ to determine his personal info via the Missing Person or state license databases.  

Keywords: _Should have been._

They had gone over all reported cases of missing persons in the past ten to twenty _years_ , but none had come close to matching with anything they had on Seventeen’s. It was like Seventeen didn’t even exist _._

Either that or lied about being both, but Seventeen had seemed sincere… 

William rubbed his eyes tiredly. “And Abstergo?”

“Quiet.” The other assassin hummed. “Our eyes on the streets haven’t seen any rats.”

Which was fortunate. Knowing that the Templars were none the wiser was a comfort. A part of him realized that it was be a waste of resources to further search for Seventeen when it was obvious at this point that the man didn’t want to be found, but that hadn’t kept them from hoping _..._

It was some time later when the paper pile on William’s desk had dwindled down to half the stack did Gavin drag his feet out of his office with a parting, “Get some sleep, Bill _.”_

William waved him away even though a glance at the clock told him it was getting late. There was still much left to do. Reports to read, missions to assign, and also getting word to the Mentor about their status on the Animus blueprints whereabouts…  

The smallest of sounds accompanied by his skin prickling made him freeze.

His hand reflexively wrapped around the pistol hiding flat under his desk. The assassin kept his breathing steady, index finger curving around the trigger before he registered the light _pitter patter_ of footsteps as—

He jerked his hand back.

“ _Desmond_.” William barely got out before there was fifty pounds of cherub barreling into him. Little arms wrapped around his waist as his six-year-old smiled toothily up at him. William chuckled breathlessly, heart beating a little calmer as he fondly carded his hand through his son’s hair. “What are you doing still up? Where’s your mother?”

“Ma’s asleep.” Desmond said dutifully.

William raised a brow. “And you aren’t because…?”

His six-year-old made a resistant sound.

Sternly, “Desmond…”

Desmond bowed his head, shame in every inch of his mannerisms when he admitted quietly, “I had a bad dream.”

 _Again?_ William sighed, stroking his son’s back soothingly. “They’re just dreams. You know that. They aren’t real, son.”

“I know, but—” Desmond bit his lip and hid his face William’s hip. His little body trembled. “Everyone was _gone_ and you and ma weren’t there and _She_ was standing over everybody and _laughing_ …”

William’s motions faltered minutely, before resuming steadily even as his mind raced. Once was chance and twice a coincidence, but a third night in the past two weeks with the same premise? 

“She shows up a lot, doesn’t she?” William mused and Desmond nodded against him.

“Don’ like her. She’s mean, keeps arguing with her sis, and—” His words melted partway into a yawn, “needs a terrible piss.”

William laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “ _Therapist,_ son.” 

Desmond mumbled something into William’s hip, but in lieu of repeating when William prodded at him, gestured at the manila folder on the side of his desk. There was a hastily scribbled _Seventeen_ on the tab and William dimly realized that Gavin had left it there on his way out.

“Who’s Seventeen?”

William’s eyes narrowed. “Were you eavesdropping?” 

His son ducked his head. “Um…”

“Good boy.”

William ignored how Desmond beamed under his palm in favor of opening the folder with his free hand. It was disappointingly thin and a pathetic excuse for a dossier with its only page comprised of the most basic of information on Seventeen, but it was all they had.

“Is he a bad guy?” Desmond wondered, arching his back to peek. “Like Abs-turd-go?”

The corner of the father’s mouth quirked up. _“Abstergo,_ son. And no, he’s...  an ally.”

Desmond blinked up at him. “’sassin like us?”   

_“That’s code for something, right?_

“If only.” William winced. Rarely did he or Helena recap their missions to their son, but seeing Desmond yawn again… He hefted Desmond up to his lap and when small arms wound warmly around his neck, William launched them into the tale of capture, rescue, and radical environmentalism.

“’venteen sounds silly.” Desmond said decidedly once the retelling was finished and the pure conviction in his son’s statement caused William to snort.

It would be easy to laud Seventeen as ‘silly’. Would be so easy to overlook Seventeen’s utter senselessness and leave it at that, and yet…

 

 _“I would watch over him if I were you.” The doctor said amid William’s inward note to self to add the doctor’s clinic as ‘friendly’ to other teams._ _He shot the doctor a confused look but the doctor’s eyes were trained on Seventeen, weathered and very nearly sad. “I worked in veteran hospitals long before opening this clinic. Some people, you know, when they’ve lost something important to them… they get possessive of about whatever they manage to regain. Your friend has that look to him.”_

_And William could understand that when he recalled how Seventeen had pulled the doctor aside, mumbled quietly in his ear, before receiving a plastic bag moments later full of what William had recognized as scraps of was left of the clothes Seventeen had bled all over in. None of the assassins had commented on it as it was evidence of their stay and better off in their care as a precaution, but now William had a reason for why the doctor had gotten a particular look on his face when Seventeen had thanked him for it, all the while clutching the bundle tightly to his chest._

 

 _Coping mechanisms._ There were many, _many_ assassins William knew whom had their own _quirk_ to deal with stress and when he reevaluated Seventeen, carefully weighed every exposed mannerism of that quiet, strange man; _willful ignorance,_ intentional or no—well, William could understand someone who wanted their peace. 

But…thinking them as _radical environmentalists?_

“Yeah, he is quite silly.” William agreed, “But he’s a good guy. He saved me, your ma, and your Uncle Gavin.” 

Desmond’s eyes went round. “He did?”

“Yeah. We were going to keep an eye out for him just in case anyone bad came along for him, but…” William sighed sullenly. “He’s good at hiding, it seems.”

Desmond cocked his head. “Why didn’t you bring him home?”

“Tenets, son.” William reminded, smiling indulgently. “What are our tenets?”

Desmond chewed on his lip, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Only hurt bad guys.”

_“Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent—”_

“Hide and seek sharp objects.”

“— _hide in **plain sight** —”_

“And stranger danger.”

 _“—never compromise the Brotherhood_ — what has Gavin been teaching you?!” William exclaimed, but Desmond just giggled at him, much to the Miles patriarch’s exasperation.

Desmond puffed his cheeks. “Uncle says those are old rules!”

“Doesn’t make them any less relevant.” The father rebutted, but the former wasn’t without some truth. The path of a modern era assassin no longer lied in simply killing the corrupt. Their currency laid in exposing secrets.  They were whistle-blowers at the very core.

Another yawn escaped Desmond and William smiled tiredly. He ticked his nose against his son’s forehead, making his boy giggle. “Now, let’s get you to bed, hm?”

“Okay, daddy.” As they left the office though, William missed how Desmond snuck one last furtive look back at Seventeen’s file.

* * *

In Desmond’s defense, the whole idea sounded way better in his head.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be an Assassin. He’d already come to terms with it, understanding that it was everything that he was. He would not go running away from his heritage in good conscience even _if_ he were 20 years in the past.

But that was just the thing that stopped him. He was in the _past_ but that came with several implications and its fair share of problems. For one, he technically already _existed._ Desmond Miles was a six-year-old child living at the Farm, not a 26-year-old man whom had fallen down a rabbit hole. Being an Assassin in this time meant going to the Farm. Being an Assassin in this time meant giving up more of himself than he could actually afford.

Not to mention the matter about his younger self and what would incur if they were to meet.

Now, Desmond was no expert on time travel, but one instance of Shaun going off on a tangent and dipping into his old conspiracy theorist tendencies came to mind. Regretfully, Desmond had nodded off somewhere during the historian’s spiel, but from what he _could_ remember, ‘time travel,’ ‘paradox,’ and ‘spontaneous combustion’ had _definitely_ been in the same sentence. Suffice to say, Desmond wasn’t too keen on testing it out.

Desmond rose up from his haunches, pocketing his makeshift lock pick when he succeeded in unlocked the door. With a quiet, “I’m home,” murmured under his breath, the time traveling assassin stepped into his place of residence for a little over two weeks, nose wrinkling when the air still smelled just as stale as it had been when he’d first broken in.

 _Home, sweet home,_ as Desmond called it, was an abandoned apartment complex situated in the middle of a row of condemned buildings in the outskirts of Rapid City. The south side of the city was rife with them, a dead zone in the otherwise booming metropolitan area. That would certainly change in 20 years (the five block radius would turn in to a popular shopping center, if Desmond recalled correctly) but right now, the boarded up and graffiti decorated buildings were exactly what Desmond had in mind.

Under the radar and away from prying eyes, it made for a perfect hideout, assuming you could take the not-up-to-standard safety codes. (He could already imagine Shaun’s distaste at the place. Rebecca certainly would have had a grandiose time snooping through the decrepit rooms for goods and as for Lucy and his dad—)

Desmond collapsed into the lumpy couch, sprawling his good arm over his eyes as his thoughts drifted to the Assassins.

It had been tempting—so _painfully tempting—_ to go with them.  

Hell, it would have made everything so much simpler to even just spill the beans to his parents, but Desmond had forced himself not to because how would they even take it? It wasn’t like he could just go up to his parents and say, _“Hey, I’m actually your son from 20 years in the future and long story short, we get our asses kicked by Abstergo. Also, what’s for dinner?”_

Yeah, that’d turn out great.

The ploy had been needed. If they knew he didn’t take them seriously, then they’d reciprocate in kind. He wouldn’t hide from the assassins if they found him, but he couldn’t afford to get too close to them. He needed the safety of anonymity if he was going to pull some strings to change the future. _Work in the shadows to serve the light_ , after all and intentionally misinterpreting their invitation into their ranks had been the most convenient way of attaining that. 

Desmond lips curled.

And _okay,_ maybe it was also kind of fun to just fuck with them, too.

Spirits a little higher, Desmond pulled himself out from his slump, deciding to make the most of the last couple hours of sunlight left of the day. Daily scouting of the city had informed him of a fortunate lack of Abstergo presence in the area and by now, Gavin’s team (it was almost laughed how easy it was to evade them) would be well out of his city.

He locked door from the inside and after casting a final look over his humble abode, shimmied out and down the window. Desmond made quick work of navigating his way down from the fifth floor, using the guardrails as handholds to build momentum and swing over spaces where he couldn’t edge across in his descent.

 _First on the agenda_ , Desmond figured once he hit the ground, _was look for a job_. He couldn’t keep stealing from rich-looking douchebags to pay for his meals forever and as for his clothes… he grimaced when his hand caught a tear on the front of his hoodie. Unfortunately, hobo-chic wouldn’t be in for another couple years.

(A part of him that was more _Altair_ than _Desmond_ didn’t find it a problem ( _blend in_ ; no one looked at the homeless, it said) but the part that was _Ezio_ was—in Desmond’s imagination—practically frothing at the mouth.)

 

Two hours into his search found Desmond still at square one. He was discouraged, but not particularly surprised. There wouldn’t be many places that were willing to allow anyone to work ‘under the table,’ but Desmond had hoped that at least _one_ of the shops and bars around the seediest parts of the city would be able to give him something.

Self-consciously, he tucked his hood more securely over his face and ducked his head as he passed a security camera. He weaved himself behind a group of teenagers likely on a night on the town and just as they passed his mark—

Desmond effortlessly slipped the wallet up his sleeve and grinned secretly as none the wiser, the business suit wearing man glared and griped about ‘hoodlums without manners bumping into him’ before returning to yell at the poor soul on the other end of his cellphone.

 _‘Score.’_ The wallet felt heavy when Desmond let it slip down to his hand.  He turned a corner to disentangle himself from the group and pocketed the thick wad of bills before quickly tossing the wallet and credit cards into the nearby bushes.

He kept his head down, blending in with small groups of people, and taking detours (just in case) as he made his way back to the Hideout. People passing him paid no mind and just as listlessly, Desmond sunk into the monotony of being _normal_ , dampening his senses to just that of city noises and the undecipherable babble of—Desmond's steps faltered.

“—that brat! He saw our faces!”

Curious, Desmond pressed himself low and flat behind a dumpster of the alley. He strained his ears, picked out three voices: two males, one female.

“…already at Robbinsdale Park. We can’t risk the shipment being sent out if we have piggies on our tails…”

“…wearing a sweater with birds on it. Got it? Search at the east end, I’ll take north and you…”     

Desmond reared back, mind racing. _A sweater with birds on it?_ Hadn’t he seen something like that before? A fire escape ladder caught his attention and Desmond wasted no time in quickly climbing to the top of the apartment building for a bird’s eye view. He flashed his Eagle Vision at them once, mouth curling at their dull, red coloring below, before he made his way over the adjacent buildings, eyes searching the emptying streets raptly.

Patterned birds, patterned birds. His head swung left and right. He was so sure he’d passed someone like that in the corner of his eyes…

_There!_

Desmond breathed out a sigh of relief, catching the hint of gold hiding in the narrow hallow of the Hwy 16 overpass among empty boxes and trash.

He heard hushed sniffling the moment he landed on the concrete and making sure his footsteps were loud and deliberate, the former bartender approached the source slowly. Abruptly, the sniffling ceased.

“Hello?” Desmond called tentatively and immediately, the bundle of gold in his Sight gave a cry of distress, burrowing deeper in his nest of cardboard boxes. Desmond chuckled at the picture and lowered himself down to his haunches, deactivating his Sight as he regarded the shaking house of boxes. The kid’s fort didn’t seem to be able to entirely hide his back and as such, Desmond got an eyeful of the happy ducklings adorning his sweater.

 _Cute._ “I like your sweater.”

The boxes froze, clearly not expecting the comment. It waited, but when Desmond didn’t move or say more, seemed to relax marginally.

“T-thanks.”

“Did your ma make it?” 

The topmost box of the fort perked up, as if surprised. “…Yeah. How did you know?”

Desmond chuckled and the boxes seemed to like the sound if the way it scooted closer to him was any indication. “Well, you’re ma stitched together ' _M_ _ama’s Little Man XOXOXO’_ on the back.”

“WHAT?!” Little hands went to the back of his sweater, swatting and missing the stitched phrase, all the while making an embarrassed, _“Nooooo.”_

Desmond grinned widely, amused despite the situation. However, something nagged at his mind. He had thought that the sweater looked familiar only because he’d seen it during his outing, but the more he looked at it… Desmond shook his head.

“I think it looks cool.” Desmond said and the little hands froze.

Shyly, “You do?”

“Yeah.” Desmond said meaningfully. “Your Ma must love you a lot to make you that. She must miss you whenever you’re gone.”

“…Yeah…” And Desmond waited patiently, counting the seconds the boxes took to collect themselves, until:

“Can you, um… can you take me to her?” The boxes asked, and the cardboard rumbled, creasing and ripping at the sides.

“That’s why I’m here.” Desmond assured and when he stood up, extending his good arm to help the kid off the ground, that was how he finally figured out _why_ the sweater had been so familiar to him.

(Because oh, **_oh no_** _._ )

Desmond could barely keep the shock from his face when the kid shyly looked up at him, smile bruised but trusting, until his senses suddenly screamed, making all thought retreat to the back of his mind.

“Hey, you!”

Desmond twisted around, instinctively pushing the child behind him. His Eagle Vision flared automatically and the red aura that seared across his vision made Desmond smother a curse under his breath.

It was the man from the alley. Luckily he was without his friends, but the guy didn’t look too friendly himself as he gestured to Desmond’s charge, smiling vaguely. “That your kid?”

The boy buried his head against Desmond’s back, whimpering.

“What’s it to you?” Desmond countered and readied himself for a fight when the guy’s smile widened, his posture shifting to make a great show of the gun in his waistband. The last thing Desmond wanted was a confrontation, but…

He glanced down at the child shaking like a leaf behind his legs, little hands clutching the back of his jeans like his life depended on it—and sighed.

“Stay behind me, kid.” Desmond murmured and six-year-old _Desmond Miles_ frantically nodded at him, gold eyes wide and frightened.   

Trouble, it seemed, always did seem to find him, _regardless_ of age.

Desmond was glad to find out that spontaneous combustion wasn’t a thing, in any case.

 

 


End file.
